Gigs are a rarity here, in this subterranean Quasar dungeon. There isn’t much call for them below this shopping mall. Upstairs: budget commerce. Downstairs: blacklights and graffiti. Strictly no underage patrons - you will be turned away before you get a chance to give away your four bucks. Audiences are thin, tonight no exception. The scene resembles a cave, with the few onlookers present gathered around the stage like Neanderthals around a fire.

… But what a fire, what a flickering explosive spark, what intricate aural pyrotechnics. Strapping Halifax quintet the Lucida Console are homely spectres, gentle and touching and wild and ferocious. How can they piece this all together so elegantly?! With such dignity?! They caress the ears for a second, warm and serene (think Mogwai for reference) with smoothly layered waves melody, so so soft on the guitars and keys. Blink. The band detonate with frantic riffs and careening vocal wails, girlish and hypnotic and irresistible. The chords are giant, the drums are a dervish. The change in sound makes me sweat and cackle. Blink. They’re somewhere else, and so are you. You can’t comprehend the change, can’t comprehend the groove – man, my maths isn’t what it was, is this prog? It can’t be, I’m enjoying it too much.

No faux-showmen here. Visual understatement is key, juxtaposed against the taut but somehow unhinged music consuming the venue. Songs such as 'Work In Progress' are introduced with such apologetic humbleness, a scratch of the head and a gentle smile. But when they start up the boys play hard, creatively and expertly. The Lucida Console keep expectations low, and then deliver in spades time and again. Epic the tunes might be, but dullness is never even hinted at. They balance youthful buoyancy with way intellectual mosaic structures and changes. It’s meticulous, and I don’t even care that it might be contrived, because the pieces of music enveloping me are so vast and wonderful.

As the Lucida Console retire from the stage all too soon, headliners Dopamine ready themselves. Wow, this place has Irn Bru on tap, the kids don’t know what they’re missing. And in a flash I’m being blasted by killer rock music, pure and unadulterated.

Dopamine have driven up here from Wales, complete with LostProphets stickers on guitars, and that whole radio-friendly emo sound in the bag. As they start their first song I have a number of thoughts – Coheed and Cambria gone light; this is kinda like Finch; I don’t dislike this; kids with skateboards would love this more than they love their Offspring cds, because it has more soul. And for a while, this band are simple and hooky and fun. The guitarist is charismatic, his white trainers ablur. I’ve never seen moves like that ever (overheard comment: “I bet he never has any trouble with the ladies…”) and he’s a definite focal point. However, the effect soon wears off after one too many songs that sound like the previous song, tonally and emotionally, and so it’s my cue to leave. Thanks, Dopamine, you were fun – no harm done. A brisk smack of cold air as I leave is like a festive kiss goodnight, and I’m smiling about how I love Halifax’s finest export.